


good morning

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, ian is very very confused, mandy gets into a russian brawl, mickey acts like a huge dork while wearing plaid boxers, morning at the milkoviches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1221631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She is crazy,” Svetlana says candidly, bringing up her cigarette in a graceful arc to her lips.</p><p>“I guess I like ‘em crazy,” Ian says, swallowing the lump in his throat. </p><p> He’s surprised when Svetlana laughs, shaking her head like she knows exactly what he's thinking, like she knows every single stupid thing about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	good morning

**Author's Note:**

> So presumably, Ian stays over at the Milkovich house the next few episodes. I doubt Ian's first run-in with Svetlana will go over this smoothly but ugh I just need them to be okay with each other so badly. 
> 
> Anyway, I just wanted Milkovich House fic of Mandy being a badass and Mickey being weak as hell for Ian so here you go. Comments appreciated~

Ian stumbles into the dingy kitchen with sleep still clouding his eyes, the sunlight from the slatted windows playing across his face. For a second, all he can register are a few vaguely feminine blobs in front of him. Eventually, his vision clears and there are eight pairs of mascara-ringed eyes fixed on him, bright with interest.

He recognizes Svetlana instantly, his stomach dropping like the dip of a rollercoaster. She’s looking at him with a raised eyebrow, cogs practically whirring in her brain as she tries to place him. Setting his jaw, Ian forces himself not to look at the noticeable curve of her stomach. One of the women leans in close to Svetlana, whispering something in Russian, her red lips tilted upwards in a coy smile. Svetlana laughs, so upbeat and happy that the sound stirs something sick and ugly in his stomach. 

Nausea rolls through him in waves and he thinks if he doesn’t tear his gaze away soon he was definitely going to puke — right then and there on the floor of the Milkovich kitchen. But he can’t and their gazes remain locked, her curious gaze boring into his. Recognition flickers through her eyes and the smile is wiped off her face.

“Morning Ian,” Mandy yawns, coming out of her bedroom, her hair an inky haystack atop her head. She takes in the gaggle of women seated at the table, and her affectionate expression morphs into something ugly and murderous. “What the fuck.”

“Uh,” Ian says, because all scraps of coherent thought have left his brain. 

“ _I’m going to kill him_ ,” she growls. “Mickey! Get your ass up right now!”

“Who are these people?” Ian asks, completely lost.

“Don’t you bitches have your own place to sleep?” Mandy’s glare zeroes in on one of the girls making coffee at the counter. She’s drinking out of the pink mug Ian bought Mandy after they started fake-dating years ago, her name stretched across it in bold, block letters. “ _You.”_

“Mandy—,” Ian starts, because he knows Mandy and he knows that tone of voice. He’s on her in an instant, holding her arms back as she attempts to lunge at the bewildered Russian girl. 

“ _Get out of my house,”_ Mandy yells, struggling against the vice of Ian’s arms, “I’m going to—you fucking—ugh _let go Ian.”_

In a moment of anger-fuelled rage, she stomps hard on Ian’s foot.

“Jesus, Mandy!”

 

As soon as Ian releases his grip, the girls are on each other in a violent flurry of hair tugging and screeches. They slam into the wall with a loud thump, the sound reverberating throughout the household. Mandy manages to get an elbow rammed into the Russian’s face, as the girl claws viciously at her back.

Losing a limb was pretty likely when an angry Milkovich was involved so Ian decides to sidestep the action. Five or six Russian girls are currently seated on the couch, watching gleefully as Mandy barrells down the hallway, smashing several beer bottles in the process. They all chatter excitably like they're watching a fucking tennis match or something, all of them ridiculously loud and good-humored.

Ian catches Svetlana watching him again, her expression a strange mixture of sorrow and apprehension. He can’t remember why he ever thought of her as dead-eyed; right now her black eyes were swimming with a melting pot of indecipherable emotions.

“She is crazy,” Svetlana says candidly, bringing up her cigarette in a graceful arc to her lips. 

“I guess I like ‘em crazy,” he says, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

 He’s surprised when Svetlana laughs, shaking her head like she knows exactly what he's thinking, like she knows every single stupid thing about him.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Ian feels his blood freeze in his veins at the voice and he curses himself because _no, you’ve moved on and this is stupid — a voic_ _e isn’t meant to mess with you like this, it isn’t meant to make you feel like you have no control over your own fucking body._

So he raises his eyes and pretends to be impassive when he takes in Mickey, who stands in the corner with his un-gelled hair sticking up in tufts, wearing nothing but plaid boxers and black slippers. If Ian didn’t feel so fucked up right now, he’d probably be reduced to hysterical laughter.

Behind Mickey, is Kenyatta, who despite being about as tall as a beanstalk seems absolutely terrified by the sight of his girlfriend maliciously flooring someone.

“ _If you smash the TV dad is going to kill you!_ ” Mickey hollers, his voice still thick with sleep.

“I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL  _YOU,_ ASSFACE.”

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters, turning towards the couch, “Who pissed in her cereal this—,”

His breath stops in his throat when he takes in the sight of Ian and Svetlana sitting side by side.

“I’m—I—hello.”

“Hello?” Ian blinks. He tries to remember a time where Mickey has ever uttered the word ‘hello’ and his mind comes up empty. They stare at each other awkwardly for almost ten minutes straight, the sounds of garbled screeches and punches breaking up the silence. Mickey looks oddly boyish bathed in the sunlight, his usual bravado nowhere to be found, jaw slack and eyes vulnerable.

“Good morning,” Svetlana says to ease the tension. She only succeeds in making things more horrifically weird. 

“Good morning,” Mickey instantly parrots back, attention fixed on Ian. 

Ian wonders when his life suddenly became a Disney sitcom. “ _Good morning?”_ He asks, because what the fuck?

Mickey finally snaps, completely exasperated. “Yes, Jesus Christ, good fucking morning. Could you both stop _staring_ at me like you have shit for brains and for fuck's sake _someone stand in front of fucking the TV before those bitches—”_

His tirade is abruptly cut short when the Russian girl is thrown at him, knocking his small frame to the ground in one fell swoop.

*

 

After the brawl is over and done with, Mandy disappears into her room with Kenyatta, wearing her busted lip with her head held high. The Russian whores all clear out for work, each of them dropping Ian a messy kiss on the cheek as they head through the door. Like Frank would say, he had always been a huge hit with the ladies.

The only woman who doesn’t kiss him is Svetlana, who regards him warily. He wonders if he’s meant to feel something towards her. Anger? Contempt? Jealousy? But the only thing that thrums through him when he looks at her is an overwhelming numbness, his expression wiped blank.

“You look after him,” she says, her eyes flickering over to Mickey. He’s sitting on the couch watching Sunday morning cartoons, muttering a string of profanities as he nurses his bruised arm. There's beer in his hand and his legs are lazily propped up on the coffee table, threadbare socks in full view. 

To anyone else, he must look completely relaxed, his trademark I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude written in every slouched line of his body. But Ian knows different, knows Mickey better than himself, really. 

Ian notices everything about him, from the tension bunching up at his shoulders to the tightness worrying the corner of his mouth. Even after their silent ride back home, and the stony, hateful thing that had grown between them since the wedding, there’s still a need that burns through Ian.

The need to just lean over and take all that tension away with a tender gesture.

With a sinking feeling, he realises that Svetlana knows Mickey too. Maybe not with the all-consuming intensity that he does, but she notices things. She cares.

“I will,” he says, and there’s nothing numb in him now. He feels tired and hard and sad, his voice throaty with regret.

“Good,” she says smiling and, for a moment, Ian almost wants to smile back. He watches as she hops into the car with the other girls, the snow peppering their fluffy coats with specks of white.

Glancing out the door, Ian can spy the corner of his house; can almost hear the sound of Debbie laughing if he strains his ears hard enough. He slams the door, suddenly feeling cold.

 

*

 

“So,” Ian starts, tentatively sitting beside Mickey on the couch. “When you said you were running a business, what exactly were you talking about?”

He was aiming for casual but that wasn’t an easy task when they hadn’t spoken properly since their terse conversation at the White Swallow. He just ends up sounding pathetically nervous.

Mickey glances up, surprised. His blue eyes are soft and afraid, like he’s completely forgotten how to control his expression. Even the hard line of his mouth seems unconvincing, especially when Mickey’s thumb comes up to rub at it nervously.

I broke him, Ian thinks, I broke him without even fucking trying.

After moments of silence, he still doesn’t say anything and eventually both their gazes flicker to the TV. They watch SpongeBob and Patrick bounce hyperactively across the screen, their manic laughter painfully dissonant in the silent house.

 _Okay,_ Ian thinks, feeling a panic build up in his chest, _Casual. Just be casual._

“Did you forget how to talk or something?”

Mickey’s expression instantly turns sour, the familiar grumpy curve of his dark eyebrows filling Ian with relief.

“It’s none of your fuckin’ business what I’m doing,” he says quickly, refusing to tear his attention from the screen.

Ian huffs out a laugh, the sudden rush of exasperation so, so welcome. Mickey looks at him instantly when he hears the sound, his expression filling up with such _warmth_ that Ian forgets about every one of his residual bitter thoughts for a single moment, his heart fluttering weakly against his ribcage.

He wants to say so much right then, wants to grasp at the words that could mend this fucked-up, terrible _thing_ between them.

_I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry I’m broken and sad and unfixable, I’m sorry we couldn’t just talk after—after—I’m sorry about calling your wife a commie skank, she seems nice. I still can’t really look at her though, can you?_

“Pass me a beer,” he says instead and Mickey seems grateful. Ian feels the cold press of the beer bottle against his arm, and a brush of pale skin as Mickey’s fingers hover over his. Their knees knock together and Mickey keeps it there, his leg pressed against his in the most fragile of touches. They don’t say anything, just wash down their morning breath with booze and watch SpongeBob feed his pet snail. 

Ian feels a soft smile stretch involuntarily across his face, his chest wound up so tight like it could burst any moment. 

It was a start.

 

           


End file.
